Marks of Beauty
by ravensparrowhawk
Summary: I now knew how it felt to have a taste of insanity. And the funniest part about it? I wanted more. Joker scarring story #2, my take. Rated for slight language and a bit of blood. Epilogue added!
1. Cards and Scars

This came out WAY longer than I originally intended. o__o; Ah well, I can't complain about the inspiration burst! Connected loosely to my other one-shot, The Devil Laughs. Events are referenced, but you don't have to read it to understand the implications. At least I don't think so. =P As for what it is, it's a take on the Joker's second scarring story, the one he relates to Rachel after the party-crashing. This is just my interpretation, so..take it with a grain of salt, if you must.

Anyway, customary disclaimer: don't own anything or anyone, blah, blah, blah..no use crying over it. And as a final note..yes, the woman is left ambiguous. If you imagine her as someone in particular, fine. If she's no one at all, that's just fine too. That's exactly what what I wanted. ;)

* * *

_Take the light, and darken everything around me  
Call the clouds and listen closely, I'm lost without you  
Call your name every day when I feel so helpless  
I'm fallin' down but I'll rise above this, rise above this_

_Hate the mind, regrets are better left unspoken  
For all we know, this void will grow and  
Everything's in vain, distressing you though it leaves me open  
Feels so right, but I'll end this all before it gets me_

**-Rise Above This, Seether**

Always, no matter what day of the week it is, she comes home crying. I swear to whatever powers that be out there, I don't know what to do about it anymore. She never used to be like this, she always used to smile constantly, laugh at my admittably _corny _jokes. That's why she married me, or so she says when she knows I'm in earshot. Things were great the first couple of years, we tied the knot straight out of high school. Want to talk about cliche, that's about the worst one out there. But we did it that way, and everything was perfect - rainbows and sunshine and lollipops. Damn, I hate that word! They're suckers. What the hell is a lolli and what genius came up with the word? Pop..don't get me started on that one.

I'm getting good at not being able to focus. Makes me wonder what's going on in my head besides worrying about my wife. Call me a sap and a pansy for this one, but she's my angel. I have no family to speak of, so she's the sun to my world. Things in our life revolve around her, and we both know it. I don't care, she deserves to be treated like the queen she should have been. The Queen of Hearts. Cards. The decks keep going missing, which is weird since I work at an ever-loving _playing card _company. The perks of working in a place like Ace of Knaves Playing Card Corporation, Gotham Branch are complimentary card decks in more styles and variations than you could ever dream of. Medical is another, but there's nothing about covering plastic surgery in the deal. I should know, I already asked about it.

She reminds me frequently that she's fascinated by my scars, that they were what initially drew her to me - even if only out of horror and pity. I hate that, but can be glad that she got past it eventually. I know she loves me now, like I love her. So what if I constantly wear a Chelsea grin, even if I'm pissed off or depressed? It's a part of me now, like my sense of humor that leaves something to be desired. Sarcastic humor and the ability to laugh at almost anything, the only good things to come out of the life I had before I met her. I don't even want to remember any of it.

All that matters now is figuring out what's wrong with her, and what do to about fixing the problem, whatever it may be. I've been tipped off by a couple of less-than-reliable friends we share, but believing what they've told me is like believing the false promises politicians spew on a daily basis. In layman's terms, both hard and useless. No need wasting my time on that, unless I hear the words coming from her own mouth.

It might have something to do with her losing her job last month, though. Even if we don't live in the schmaltzy, ritzy areas of Gotham, it still takes a good bit of dough being raked in to keep our collective heads above water. Our apartment isn't the most modern, but it's relatively safe..as safe as any address in the Narrows can actually _get, _but there it is. It's even furnished with workable - if not brand new - pieces of furniture, and we at least have all the appliances and cooking accoutrements that two people could ever need. Keeping the cabinets and refrigerator decently stocked is another story, but bills come with a natural priority in place. Best to have to scrounge for food rather than having debt collectors banging down your door.

The lack of money has to be what's getting to her. I know it's starting to worm it's way into the recesses of my mind and cause me to pull hair. Bad idea when the hair in question has reached your shoulders. I have to ask her about the problems and I know it, but I almost hate to. She's not someone to avoid issues, but I know they eat at her worse than they do me. Her folks were both big on self-reliance and drilled it into her, so losing her somewhat-cushy job had to make her feel like she was disrespecting what she'd been brought up believing.

Another thing about her family, they're really down on me. I don't give a damn about that, but she gave a lot to even be in a relationship with me, much less deciding to marry me. She's told me she's gotten over that, but I know better. She misses her family, and I can't really blame her - even if that is an entirely foreign subject to me.

Maybe if one of them was around, they could get her to talk about her problems. To do that, though, she'd have to be rid of me - and while I don't believe she'd kill me, I have to wonder if, with enough pressure, she'd leave. Who knows what people will do under pressure? That's the joy of humanity, we're all so freaking different. Unique, to me, is an overrated word for the average person, but that's an opinion. Everyone has their own, just like..I don't even need to finish that old saying.

Beating around the bush isn't going to get me anywhere, I guess I'll just have to bite the bullet. That's another saying I don't like. How the hell can someone bite a literal bullet without screwing up their pearly whites - or slimy greys, or dingy yellows...I digress. Hygiene is another thing people view differently. With some, it's highest priority. Others, not so much.

It's a good thing I've made up my mind to confront her about it, since I hear the front door opening. She's right on schedule, coming home from the job hunt. Or, at least, that's what she tells me she's been doing with her days since the vaporizing of the career went down. I have no reason to doubt her, but the missing decks are still a bit of a riddle. Sure, I like mind games, but this variety, when it encroaches on real life and possibly vital matters? Hate it.

What I expected to see when I went to meet her - in a reversal of what usually happened around this time of day, her coming from the kitchen where dinner cooked away merrily - was shattered by something I had to blink a few times to assure myself was real. Blood, streaking in rivulets down the sides of her face, made my heart rate speed up and made it felt like it was beating fit to burst. She had been cut from the corners of each mouth clear across to her cheekbones, and even a bit past them.

Looking at her pale, bloodied face may as well have made me look through a portal that opened into my very painful past. It was reliving my worst memory of my childhood, but mirrored and etched into a face that I knew so well. The red made me feel like a bull presented with the matador's cape - murderous and fully willing to kill whoever had the balls to do something like this.

When she seemed to sway on her feet and about to fall, I closed the short distance in about two strides and caught her shoulders, easing to my knees as she dropped to hers in order to get a closer look at her face. The cuts were clean, almost professional, like the one responsible did this kind of things for a living. Street gangs weren't known for having this kind of surgical precision, and those in the mob able to do this were few. That left few options, but stopping the bloodflow at this point was more important than getting the answers out of her, especially since she seemed too caught up in a state of shock to speak.

Though I didn't want to do it, I helped her up and half-led her to the bathroom, where I had her sit down on the counter itself. She was relatively short, five foot two in comparison to my six foot three, so I had to even the difference in order to be able to take care of her properly. Her 'good' clothes were already staining, and I know I was going to be hearing about that when she regained the ability to speak.

Stemming the bloodflow wasn't very hard - I remembered what had been done when my own face had been cut eight years ago, and was somehow able to drag up the memory to use. When it had stopped sufficiently, I pulled out the expanded first-aid kit and dug through it quickly, finding what I needed with little trouble. I hated having to do something like this, but her face had to be stitched - and the nearest hospital was too far to walk. Our car had been sold about six months ago to pay off a hospital bill racked up when I badly broke my arm and shoulder in a fall, and to add insult to injury, she was admitted with pneumonia at the same time. Having a car hadn't outweighed the need to pay off the debt, yet again, so it had been pawned off for a fair bit lower than we could have gotten.

"Honey, I'm going to have to.." Before I could finish, she looked at my hand and saw the supplies, and that was all she needed to know. Nodding in a numb manner, she closed her eyes - and I had to brush several tears away with my sleeve before I could start. We both knew from experience we didn't have the numbing agents they would have used in a hospital, so this was always painful. Considering the cuts, it probably wasn't much worse for her. If it was, she didn't bring light to it and didn't even make a sound.

When I finished, I carefully made sure they would hold, then choked back a sigh as she started crying anew. That hurt me to watch a woman cry, much less when that woman was my wife. It forcibly reminded me of all the tears my mother had shed in the past, and I had to fight a few of my own as I wrapped my arms around her and just held her close. She didn't resist, so we remained that way for at least fifteen minutes..until I knew I had to break the silence and find out why this had happened.

"Were you out hunting for jobs again today?" I asked upon letting go of her, calmly enough. Judging by her expression, she wasn't ready to talk about this, but felt cornered. That hurt as well.

"I..that's not what I've been doing the past four weeks.." The tears started coming faster, and I knew this was going to be a difficult conversation to hold. It took a lot of willpower not to make demands of her at this point.

"Then what _have _you been doing every day?"

"You know I learned to gamble during that trip we took to Vegas, how good I was at cards.." She apparently had to swallow before continuing, and I allowed her a moment. The trip to Vegas I remembered all too well, it was our honeymoon. Most of our savings went down the drain to accomodate for it, but she _had _won a good part of it back playing cards, as did I. Now I was suspecting that I would get an answer for the missing decks of cards.

"I've been gambling. There's a den nearby, I heard about it from a friend, and I just started playing to help build up our savings after the hospital bills-"

"You mean to tell me that this entire time you've been doing this, you've lied _and _you're gambling again? You know you have a problem!"

After what I said, she literally flinched like a kicked dog and recoiled a bit, back hitting the mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink. "I _know _that, John! Damn it, I do, but you aren't bringing in nearly enough money and we both know it! I can't even find a decent job, everything's below my experience level! I had to do something about it.."

"Then start again! If you can't find something on your level, go lower. You started out at the bottom of the ladder in the beginning-" I may as well have poured hot water onto her with that, judging by the way her eyes narrowed to near-slits.

"This coming from the man that refuses to consider a second job since all he can get is comedy gigs at nightclubs! Use your sense of humor, for god's sake, it's not doing you any good otherwise! It sure as hell isn't putting food on the table regularly."

Had I been the type to hit a woman for insolence, that would have been the comment to make me. Remembering the abuse of my mother was the only thing that stopped me from raising my hand to her, but I still clenched both of them into fists behind my back. It was like a blow to my manhood, the reminder that I was hardly bringing enough money in to keep us in the clear, let alone when she had always been the one to make more money than me. She had never used it against me before now, and things really had to have changed for it to start.

"You know what..you're right. I can start taking on those gigs." I couldn't help the resignment in my voice as I said it, but that was unavoidable. Being paid for something that was keeping me sane was hard to swallow - but if it kept her from gambling, I would do whatever it took. "But..why were you cut? Please don't tell me it's because of the gambling.."

Again, I inspired the effect of fear in her - and something that made me sick, loathing. She hated that I was asking her these questions, and that wasn't like her. She had never balked from the truth before, not even about something serious.

"Yes, it's because of the gambling. We didn't have anything in the bank this time, and I couldn't pay what I owed. They didn't like that at _all.."_

It was the last thing I wanted to hear, and the shock must have registered on my face as I backed away - until my back hit the wall. "So they carved your face because you couldn't make good on debts you racked up, debts you made by slowly gambling what little money we have left away."

Rather than scream or yell as I expected from this new, formerly unseen side of her, she looked down at her folded hands in her lap, fingers picking at imaginary lint on her clothes. "You don't understand..I _had _to do it! I'm sick of living on the fringe of poverty in this damned city!" When she looked up again, she wasn't the same woman I had fallen in love with and married - she was a stranger staring at me with a leering mockery of my own scars.

"We'll get _through _this, you know that! You don't have to drag yourself down to this level so we can get ahead." It was a miracle that my voice wasn't shaking, but it didn't. "Look, we can fix this, I can take extra shifts at the factory, I can-"

"No..that isn't enough anymore." She all but stopped me in her tracks with the resigned hint to her voice, like she was about to do or say something horrible and completely out of character. "I can't _live _like this any longer! I can't look in the mirror and face myself with these-" She motioned to the scars, pressing the fingers of each hand along the stitches hard enough to make her pale skin even paler.

Saying that may as well have been her kicking me in the stomach. I had the same injuries, she would have the same scars..and she couldn't take that. "We don't have the money to get repair surgery.." My voice did shake this time, and she looked over at me with only a hint of the sympathy she might have used in better times.

"I know, and that's what's so bad about this..I can't stand to look at myself like this, I'm.."

Before I thought about the words, I was interrupting her. "I don't _care_ what you look like. It doesn't matter to me if you have the scars or not, I love you for who you are, and you are _still _beautiful! You're still the best-looking woman I've ever known, and beauty is only-"

A bitter laugh stopped that thought from reaching its logical end. The sound coming from her was enough to make me feel faintly sick.

"_Beauty is only skin-deep_. That's easy for you to say, you don't _understand _how I feel right now, and you never will."

"No, I don't understand how it is for you." I had to grudgingly admit it, since she was the one more concerned with her appearance. I could care less what people thought when they saw me, but she took more pride in how she looked. It wasn't vanity, per se, I understood that much from living with her for two and a half years. "But please, try to understand how I feel..this doesn't change one _whit _of how I see you. You're still the most important person in my life."

She seemed to consider my words, but still wouldn't look at me all the same. It was starting to seem as if she was ashamed to look at me and see the damage to my face, worse than her own but still a reminder of how other people saw such scars. It was a sure sign of violence in your life, and for her to be connected with something so low had to be a bitter pill to swallow.

I was starting to grow tired of this situation already, and just wanted everything to go back to the way it had been - her injuries withstanding. I had already made up my mind to get back at whoever was responsible, but it could wait until I calmed her down and got her back to normal. Absently rubbing my face without thinking about it, I felt the ridges that had been there for so long, realizing how smooth they actually had become. The damage had been bad, yes, but care had prevented them from turning out too badly. For the first time, that seemed an unacceptable thing for me.

When I noticed the razor blade - sans the razor itself - lying on the rimmed edge of the tub, my eyes were inexplicably drawn to it, like iron to a magnet. The razor had ended up broken, and I saved the blade itself for later use. Struggling to gain even the basest items made one rethink throwing anything away that could be used in any way, shape or form. What I planned on doing had nothing to do with shaving, though..and I picked up the blade before she could register what I was doing.

Thinking wasn't something I had to do, since this had already happened once - in a very different fashion, however. Opening my mouth, I brought the blade up to one side of my mouth, then ripped the blade through skin like a hot knife through butter. I had my back to her, so she couldn't yet see what I was doing. The pain wasn't even a deterrant, and I did the same to the other side of my mouth without so much as flinching. Bending down to rinse the blade, I felt morbidly fascinated as the bloodflow started. It was a strange thing to experience once, much less twice. This time, I was far from scared.

"Why are you-" What I wasn't prepared for was the scream, which is exactly what she let loose with when she saw the blood dripping from my re-opened scars. It was an apparent shock, and I turned to look at her with the calmest expression I could manage.

"Don't you _get _it? This is proof that I don't care about the scars." Speaking was an interesting feat, since any movement of the mouth made a bit of pain flare up. The funny thing was, it didn't bother me nearly as much as it should have. It was just a background situation, an end to a method of proving a point. "I'm doing this for _you._"

As I got up off my knees and started towards her, I certainly didn't expect her to slide off the counter and back away from me - looking at me like I had just sprouted an extra head that spoke fragmented Latin. But that was what she did, wrapping her own arms around herself as if to ward off sudden fright. And I could see it. She was scared of me.

Poetic devotion apparently had no place in our relationship. "No, this isn't what I _want!_" The tears were now streaming even faster down her face, and she was standing as if ready to collapse at any second. I knew better than to move closer, even though I severely wanted to - to just grab her and pull her against me and swear everything was going to be ok, even if we both knew it wasn't.

"Then what do you want?" Before the question was even out of my mouth, I could see the answer in her eyes, just as the realization clicked in her mind.

"This is over. I'm through. I can't take this." Though there was an edge of steel to her voice, I could hear the catch trying to form in her throat. The words were hard to get out, and even worse to be hearing. Playing true with what she was saying, she showed she meant it by pulling off her wedding ring - something I had to scrape and struggle and save to buy, which now ended up dropped on the linoleum floor as if it meant nothing any longer. "We're through."

The sound of the ring clattering to the floor with a dull metallic ping didn't even have time to stop ringing in my ears before she had left. Moving close enough to pick up the ring, I dropped to my knees to reach it, then lifted it and stared at it - whole body entirely numb. The symbol that had meant so much had now been returned to me, and I knew with a sinking heart that she had meant every word of what she said. Two and a half years may as well have just been flushed down the toilet. I would never get them back.

How long I sat there before the door slammed shut, I don't know..but I do know the sound stirred me from my self-induced stupor. She was now gone from the apartment, and had likely taken as much of her stuff as she could gather rapidly. Probably the only thing I had left was the ring. Had I been able to, I would have melted it down then and there. It was a clear indicator of what had gone wrong in a perfectly good relationship - all over a lost job and a fatal misunderstanding. To keep it would be accepting that I _had _failed, and that I lost what had been the most important person in my life.

Shoving the ring into my pocket, I put both hands to my face. Pulling them away covered in wet, warm and sticky blood, I stared at them for all of ten seconds..before I started laughing. I laughed, and I laughed, and I laughed. Until it felt like I was going to bust a gut, until I wanted my lungs to collapse to get rid of the searing ache, until the hot tears started rolling down my face to mingle with the blood. And I continued laughing, until I was literally doubled over on the floor, gasping for breath like a fish out of water.

If that was a sign of my new state of mind, I now knew how it felt to have a taste of insanity. And the funniest part about it? I wanted _more. _


	2. Bloody Closure

Consider this a sort of epilogue to close up the loose ties of this one. The idea just hit me and it stems partly from the scene at the end of Batman Begins where we get a first glimpse of the Joker card. I always wondered who could've been killed, and well..this is _my _interpretation. Take it, as always, with a grain of salt if you must. ;)

* * *

_You better pray that there's  
Another way out  
You better pray that  
Someone's listening now  
And doesn't wanna watch you drown  
'Cause when you lie like  
The devil himself  
No angel's gonna hear your  
Cry for help!_

**_-_Cry for Help, Shinedown**

The first warning I had that the previously calm night had just taken a turn for the worst was the sound - if faint - of glass shattering down the hall, as if one of the windows had been broken. Living away from the epicenter of the city's big crime center as my husband and I did was supposed to have discouraged the sort of small-time robberies and murders that usually struck the lower-level apartments in Gotham - especially around the Narrows, where I lived several years ago. Those times were still dark in my memory, just a reminder of a past with entanglements I'd much rather forget. I pretend they never happened at all, and most people that know me don't even have any idea about it, and that's exactly what I want. Past or present, the fact still remained that it sounded like someone had just broken into our apartment. It was apparently inevitable at one point or another for most in the city to face something like this, and our time had finally come.

I could feel Michael literally tense up like a drawn bowstring next to me, and before I could touch him, he was climbing out of bed and fishing around for the handgun he usually kept in the drawer of his nightstand. That alone makes me want to cry, the thought of him actually having to use the weapon. It's an old-fashioned Smith and Wesson revolver, owned by his grandfather and passed down to his father, then from his father to him. He still swears that, should we have a son, it'll eventually belong to him.

Children are way out of the picture for us and will be for some time. That was something I could at least be glad of for now, since worrying about him was enough to make me feel sick. The soft ratchet of the gun chamber being closed made me flinch, as the sound of it was loud and almost harsh in our nearly silent bedroom. The distant neon glow of that part of the city that never sleeped served as the only illumination in our room, and even that was muted with distance. Instincts cautioning me away from lighting one of the lamps, I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could and pull a waiting robe on over my nightgown. Movements cautious, I approached Michael before he could leave the room, feeling the sudden need to at least feel his arms around me before he went to face whoever was stupid enough to break in. Granted, my husband had little practical experience with guns of any kind, but I knew if push came to shove, he could use one in his - our - defense.

"Honey, please be careful. I'll call the police-" My voice was barely a whisper and cracked slightly because of fear - terror if I wanted to admit it - welling up inside me.

"No, don't call yet." His voice was just as low as mine, and I could see the seriousness in his face as he looked down at me. He was a good half a foot taller than I was, and it made me feel incredibly small and vulnerable at that particular moment. He was my best defense if something went wrong, but I had to wonder what I would do if something happened to him. The thought wasn't worth pursuing because it only increased the feeling of nausea growing in the pit of my stomach.

"But what if something happens-" Again, I get interrupted before I can finish, and were the situation different, it would have irritated me to no end.

"I'm going to take care of this before the police get here. Nothing's going to happen, but whoever this idiot is, he's going to pay for this." Before I can argue, he catches my chin and gives me a rather firm kiss, and I'm even able to tell there's a bit of an edge of desperation to it. He's shaken just like I am, and that doesn't help my nerves at all. Neither of us ever expected something like this to come.

When he pulled away, I expected him to leave right away. That wasn't what happened, though, as he pulled me against him in a hug. Taking a small measure of comfort from the gesture, I wrapped my arms around his waist and buried my face against his chest, breathing in his usual smell.

We certainly aren't the richest people in the city by any means, but we live pretty well off compared to most. New furniture decorated our recently remodeled apartment and it was pretty high end, but that was about as far as the extravagance went. We hadn't bought new vehicles in several years, as most of our money was sitting safe in the bank. I did have a couple jewelry boxes and there was a safe in the living room for emergencies, but that was the extent of our in-home wealth. The bills were always paid on time, as the pay from Michael's work as a plastic surgeon ensured that.

With no time to think about what _could _actually happen in spite of Michael's encouragement, I was suddenly left alone in the room when he left to investigate. Taking only a moment to regulate my breathing, I spent a grand total of half a minute just standing there stupidly. My ears were straining for sounds of the scuffle I knew had to be coming, but my heart literally pounding in my ears would make even the most basic of sounds hard to discern. My heart rate had to be up more than was healthy for any one person, but I couldn't calm myself in any way to bring it down.

Resigned to the sound of the blood pounding in my ears like angry snare drums, I slipped out of the room myself and went to the kitchen, feeling very naked without some kind of weapon in my hand. Approaching one of the sets of carving knives we kept out on one of the counters at all times, I drew the largest one out of the wooden holder and stared at the glinting blade, morbidly fascinated with how sharp it was. Just a mere touch could make a deep gash, and that was exactly what I needed - something to cause damage without much effort on my part.

Just as I got it in my head to go after Michael and find out just what was going on, the sound of two gunshots in rapid succession almost made me scream. All sorts of possibilities of what had happened flashed through my mind almost faster than I could process. What if Michael had been shot? Had he shot down the wannabe burglar? These and many others kept playing in such a way as to make coherent thought almost impossible, so I had to force them down before I could even do so much as breathe normally again.

Shaking from head to foot, I ran towards the sounds, even though my instincts were screaming at me not to. It would turn out that was a bad idea, as the sight I met in one of the spare bedrooms would make me draw up short in literal terror. Blood was already starting to pool on the floor and it would definitely stain the cream carpet...but it was the source of blood that my eyes were unwillingly drawn to. The man I had fallen head over heels for two years previous was lying on his side like a broken marionette, head tilted back to reveal a nasty and jagged gash across his throat. Several other bloodied spots on his pajamas told me he had also been stabbed several times, but I could hardly rip my eyes away from his glazed, glassy and staring eyes. If I needed any confirmation that he was dead, that was exactly what did it.

Had something - or someone - not moved in the shadows while I stared in blank recognition of my dead husband, I don't know how long I would have stayed there numb with shock. With my state of mind as it was, I didn't even register that the murderer and the source of my problems was still lingering around. Not until I found the barrel of a gun - _his _revolver - being pointed at me.

Eyes brimming with tears I didn't want to let fall yet, I looked up with a dulled expression, seeking out a face that was very hard to see due to shadows and dim light. I started to make very bold demands of someone who was having a gun pointed at them, but as I opened my mouth, a _very _unwelcome - and very **shocking** - voice reached my ears.

"Ah, ah, _ahhhh_, honey-bunch. No speaking, you'll _spoil _the moment."

Flashes of that past life, the one I completely ignored, came back to the forefront of my mind with a vengeance. Memories of a smiling face, carved with a cruel and unnatural Chelsea grin. Brown eyes, warm and always filled with laughter. Messy hair somewhere inbetween blond and brown..there was _no _way I could face _him _again, not after what had happened. Hardly aware that I was moving until my back hit a wall, I sank down and had to let a few tears fall as they slipped past control. He was here to destroy what was left of my life, as I'd done with his.

"Didn't expected to _see _me, hmm? Tsk, tsk. I gave you more mental credit than you _deserve. _Of course, how foolish of me? You _left _me, not vice versa. Guess you were happier with _this _chump." Adding insult to injury, the tip of a well-worn tennis shoe kicked Michael's body in the ribs and rolled him onto his back, so that he was now staring unseeing at the ceiling instead of the wall.

I wanted to say something about that, protest so violently that the words that were stuck in my throat literally HURT, but when he stepped out of the shadows to approach me, the urge to speak was driven from me and my breath was ripped from my lungs. The face I had once known so well was smeared with make-up so thick it was flaking in places, and hair that looked as if it hadn't been washed in weeks was dyed lurid green. Unable to look away, I watched in transfixed horror as he knelt in front of me. The barrel of the gun was leveled at my chest, and a knife - still wet with Michael's blood - was held up to my mouth.

"So _a-fraid,_ dearest? Have I really changed _that _much?" He was questioning with a definite air of venom, as if he wanted nothing more than to shoot me on the spot - and I feared that he was going to. Whether it happened sooner or later could be questioned. "No, no need to answer that. I _know _I have." Slightly yellowed teeth were bared in a feral grin, and the scars - painted red, larger and filled with more scar tissue than I remembered - twisted and stretched that unnatural grin. "Awww, cat got your tongue? Say _something. A-ny-thing._"

I really did felt as if something had taken my tongue. My voice wouldn't come, and as I continued to fight the tears of anguish, I shook my head in a mute refusal. That was a mistake as I quickly learned, as the blade of the knife was forced into my mouth against my will. At risk of having my tongue sliced up, I stayed still in an attempt to stall injury. The fact that I could _taste _the blood on the knife, however, was almost enough to make me gag.

"No matter. I don't expect anything from you. Never were one to do _anything _under duress." As if contemplating on just how to torment me further, he tapped the handle of the knife, making it jar my teeth slightly with each tap. Closing my mouth had been second nature and was the reason I could feel the movements, but the sensation was merely a mild annoyance.

"A-ny-way, I guess I need to tell you why I'm here." He grinned again, though this time there was something downright demonic about it, and it chilled me straight down to the bone. "I'm here to, ahh..sever ties. _Kill _the links to my past, if you want to be so blasé about it."

"Jack, please.." I was speaking before I really knew it, aware of the blade cutting my tongue in the process. I couldn't manage anything above a whisper, either. It took far too much effort, something I couldn't afford. "Don't-"

"Oh, _please _don't kill me! PLEASE!" Adopting a high falsetto, he mocked me with obvious scorn, mouth now twisted into a cruel sneer. "I don't deserve it, I want to _LIVE,_ please let me live!" Turning his head, he spat on the carpet, then stared me down with the coldest glare I'd ever been faced with. "Sorry, doll. Too late to forgive _or _forget." Pulling the knife out of my mouth, he set it aside for the moment, but still had me pinned in place because of the gun leveled at my chest. Grabbing my face, he ran his fingers roughly across one cheek, then the other, before barking a mirthless - yet creepy - laugh. "Oh, NOW I get the joke. Your _hubby-bubby _here was a top-notch plastic surgeon. You ran back home to _mommy _and _dad-dy_, got the dough for your surgery with a sob story. **He **did the operation, fixed up your face like it used to be, then simply _fell _in love with his patient afterward. Pathetic."

"Don't you _dare_-!" I got no more than that out before he had me by the throat, grip crushing and fingers pressing hard against the tender flesh. It felt as if he was trying to crush my windpipe, which he could have easily done.

"Oh _no, _don't _you _dare. You threw what we had away, so you think I was going to let you go on your merry little way and have a fairytale ending with someone else? HAH!" This time, the laugh was unhinged and downright insane, and I knew without a doubt that he'd lost his mind. Hardly able to think about it, I struggled to breathe, starting to grow a bit desperate as the need for air would only continue to grow.

"I ought to break your _pretty _little neck, but I won't." He let me go, then backhanded me so hard and so suddenly I fell sideways and clutched at my aching throat. The barrel of the gun was then pressed hard against my temple, and when the hammer was pulled back, I could literally feel it.

"No, I think I'll let you live a little longer. Let you get an idea of _what _you've helped create." He was looming over me in such a way that I began to realize I wouldn't be getting up again, not without being shot. "You want to know what happened after you _left,_ baby?" Shaking my head no was the wrong answer, as the blade was forced back into my mouth and was pulled hard against one corner of my mouth. Just a little more pressure and he'd be able to slice my face open like the collectors had done in a time that seemed ages ago. I didn't doubt that he was going to do it.

When I didn't answer, he simply shrugged and proceeded as if I'd begged him to say whatever he was going to. "I lost the apartment because I couldn't pay the _bills. _I lost everything else because I had to _pawn _all of it just to eat. That didn't last, so I got the only job I could find, an enforcer in the mob. I would still be in that if someone hadn't _ratted _about me taking extra pay to double-cross the head boss, so I had my face cut open a **third **time and they tried to beat me to death. Didn't work." Mouth pressed into a thin line, he continued in an almost self-deprecating manner. "As you can tell, I've lost my _fucking _mind. And you had a part in it, however _small _that part really is, so I can't let you live with the knowledge."

"Jack, I-I'm sorry..I didn't mean.."

"Jack's **dead**, and he's never coming back." He snarled, once again cutting me off. His fingers tightened around the handle of the gun, and I knew I only had a few minutes left at the very most. "I'm going by a different name now."

I tensed as he reached into his pocket, wondering what kind of weapon he was going for now, but when I saw what he pulled out, it made me frown. It was a playing card like those he used to collect from his former job. When it was turned around, I saw it was a Joker card - one of the old-style jesters was dancing in the middle of the card, dressed in a three-tailed bell hat, pointy shoes and carrying a staff with a perfect replica of his face and hat. "J-Joker..is that what-"

"_Remember _it so you can tell those in Hell who killed you." He smiled again, and this time I knew my time was up. The last thing I ever heard on this world was the sharp crack of a gunshot...and the Joker's insane laughter above it.

* * *

The crime scene in that higher-scale apartment did nothing but puzzle the Gotham City PD officers sent to investigate the case. It was an odd one in the style of murder, as well as the value of objects stolen. The safe that was stored in the living room had been opened, but the money inside had merely been rifled through rather than stolen. Nothing there was missing, and the only other thefts were of the contents of the jewelry boxes - a reported $10,000 amount, rather meager in light of the $500,000 that had been in the safe. Also, in spite of thorough sweeping, no physical evidence to pin on a suspect had been found - no fingerprints, DNA or murder weapons.

Blood was everywhere, but that was to be expected - all of it belonged to the two victims, Mr. and Mrs. Michael Summers. Mr. Summers had been a well-known and well-thought-of plastic surgeon, one that routinely donated to charity causes almost explicitly in Gotham, and his wife, while relatively unknown, had come from a well-to-do family. Her family in particular would be shocked by the case, as they knew of no one living that would have any reason to kill the couple.

Needless to say, the most puzzling element of the case was what had been done to both victims post-mortem - their faces had been carved open in what seemed a ritual Chelsea grin, used most commonly in gangs as warnings for rival gang members. As neither victim had any known connections to any such groups, the police found that to be a dead end. The case would have eventually turned into a cold one, if not for one small piece of evidence on the scene - a Joker card pinned to Mrs. Summers' body, which would inevitably be traced to the criminal mastermind only known as the Joker.

Unfortunately for the family and others puzzled by the case, the Clown Prince would never reveal his reasons for this particular double murder, and it was forevermore a secret.


End file.
